


i’ll watch you sleep, and listen to you breath

by sultrygoblin



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, One way mirror, Sleep Paralysis, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism, stinky wall boy, wall boy flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23507884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: two shot - full requests in notes - Eleanor was more than happy to work in the isolated English countryside. The job was strange but comforting, contrary to her life before it all, she's almost lonely. Almost. Eleanor is sure some creature must lurk beneath the mirrors of Heelshire mansion, they seem to breath. As crazy as it seems, she is very sure that whatever is beyond the silvered surface is reaching out for her. It craves something from her and she's so close to just giving it all to the specter.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	1. i don't ever wanna leave

**Author's Note:**

> prompt; “How would Brahms deal with an insecure s/o? It wouldn't actually interfere a lot on the routine, they'd follow the rules as usual, be very sweet and motherly with him and extremely reassuring, especially about his scars! But they'd be really shy and self conscious when it came to their weight and looks! Would he try and praise them? If he called me pretty I'd probably melt dkdhdkdhdjd -🍼” and “ I heard Brahms and came running 👀 Ever thought that he could have the Mannor's mirrors only reflect on one side, and have him be able to see through the other side while he was hiding in the walls? “
> 
> notes; this was not ANY of this when i started writing it in my notebook but then i didn’t quite like it and this is what came out. so it is a two-parter because ya’ll just inspired me so. insecure!anon, i know that generally that is a chubby girl thing (she said, muffin top hanging over her comfy sweatpants) but i had talked recently with a friend about how it doesn’t really go to the other end of the spectrum. so girly here is very small, skinny, not slender or some nonsense. she’s a tiny, sickly, girl. but! if you desire chubby girls then chubby girls you shall have, just send in another request with any other specifics you want and i’ll get on it. lightly edited as always. i read through these things ever other day, so they get more and more edited.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i’m on the outside. i’m looking in. i can see through you. see your true colors

Not much about the situation bothered her. Everyone had their own way of dealing with grief. Eleanor had never lost a child and wasn’t in a position to presume how one was supposed to deal with that. She rather liked the quiet and isolation that came with taking care of the doll in that country house. The fresh vegetables, bakery bread, and meats straight from a butcher were a welcome delight, even if she did have to entertain Malcolm when she’d much rather he’d leave. He was attractive but earnest, as if he expected her to melt simply because of that fact. She smiled politely, excusing herself to fulfill some other task on her list. He seemed perplexed about why she would follow the direction. Another reason to find him a bore. But even that she could stand, she’d known men like him before and after a while, she just wasn’t pretty enough to keep chasing. It was the mirrors, they seemed to breathe every time she walked by. As if something would reach out of its silver surface and drag her into its realm. And Eleanor didn’t like mirrors much to begin with especially the large mirrors that appeared in almost every room of Heelshire mansion, as if the demon could only follow her from looking glass to looking glass. Or perhaps, the isolation had felt necessary to give a form to her hatred of the blasted things just was told never to cover. No, it was one of her chores to keep them spotless and she did so, as she did with everything else; with no idea why.

The breezy summer came and went, giving way to the wet weather of fall. The ground became squishy with mud, emptying the traps became harder and harder. The soggy air made dirt and dust cling to the mirrors like a magnet and she found herself cleaning them at least twice a day to keep them close to the spotlessness that had been demanded of her. Though she’d rather be anywhere else. Her hair had never hung any other way but straight no matter how hard she tried, but the damp air made it seem greasy. Her breath made waves of condensation that made slicked her skin with some mixture of sweat and vaporized saliva. Forced on her knees so often to scrub at the bottom left a slight discoloration to her knobby knees that no amount of lotion seemed to solve. She barely wanted to look at herself beyond what was required to get ready any day and now she was almost forced to. There was only so well one could clean a mirror with their eyes closed.

As far as problems went, she had experienced much worse and most days it didn’t bother her. But nights, well nights could be a different story and this night definitely was. It hadn’t started that way, the power had gone off halfway through her shower, there’s no way she was going to manage it outside with the storm raging on out there. With the towel tucked tightly around her, Eleanor was quick to light candles, just enough to light her room as she had long ago tucked Brahms into bed. She was stepping across the room, working a second, smaller towel through her hair, the mirror seemed to flex in the corner of her eye and it drew her attention straight to it. In the candlelight, it seemed to bend towards her, as if whatever was beyond was beginning to get stronger, and soon it would be able to touch her. Slowly she moved towards it, droplets cooling on her skin in the night air, and making her shudder until her hand met the opalescent flames flickering in the reflection. It was warm, it should be freezing against her palm and the monster feels much too real at this moment.

The walls creak, snapping her out of whatever spell the cursed object had managed to cast over her, making her way back to the dresser and pulling on an oversized linen nightgown over her before dropping the towel from beneath it. She grabbed the lotion pot off the top of the old wood, scooting to the center of the bed and working the lotion into her skin, listening to the rain against the roof and windows, it didn’t drown out every sound but enough of them to bring her back to reality. Imagination was a powerful thing, especially in the wake of something that already made a person uneasy. It was just the atmosphere playing tricks on her. Tomorrow she would wake to a damp morning and start the cycle anew, leaving this as a distant memory from an overwhelming night. Easing to her feet once more she puts it back on the dresser’s top, a floorboard creaks much too close, but when she turns there’s nothing. It was decidedly time for bed at that point, she had already spooked herself for the night and sleep was the magical eraser.

She blew out the last candle, climbing between cool sheets and curling into herself in an attempt to hurry the process of warming the blankets. Growing up going to bed had been the answer to most problems. Even nightmares had become a comfort because nightmares couldn’t truly hurt you. Somewhere lost in the haze of memories she’d prefer not to remember and thoughts if perhaps she was truly going mad, she managed to drift off into someplace close to slumberland. 

{}{}{}

It’s been a long time since she’d woken suddenly unable to move, lost to the mercy of what the still coursing chemicals of sleep could make her waking eyes see, her motionless body feel. The last time she’d been a teenager, in a room that barely qualified as a cupboard with peeling paint and the acrid smell of dust. The pure darkness and the silence had done enough to riddle her with fear and her mind had spared her the terror of a specter. Eleanor would not find herself so lucky this time. There’s nothing to see in the darkness, the storm has picked up, the rain slamming against the window and the way the walls shook did it’s best to drown out the sound of her pounding heart in her ears. Perhaps it might’ve succeeded, she might’ve drifted gently back to sleep without a thought and called this a one-off from the strange moment she had found herself in before bed. Perhaps…

A finger traces the raised scars on her scrawny thighs, she couldn’t move, couldn’t grasp. Eleanor is sure the storm has allowed whatever beast that lived just beyond the polished metal to climb his way out just to gobble her up.

“I must not strain the moments of our meeting,” it’s quiet, more child than monster. A voice that did not match the whatever was so gently caressing slivered flesh, “Striving for each look, each accent, not to miss,” it sounds so familiar, she knows it. Has her mind gone just as motionless as her body? Or was this another trick of whatever now lived in the dark of her room, “Or question of our parting and our greeting,” man, monster, child, ghost, she didn’t know. Every part of her paralyzed, “Is this the last of all? is this—or this?”

Except for the soft sensation, there’s no malice in it, it truly is a caress, which seems odd when compared to the creature her mind had conjured up beyond the glass. It’s almost nice, almost calming. _Almost_. Lightning flashes sending scattered light across the room, it breathes life back into her. She gasps, jerking upwards suddenly as she panted. It’s only a moment, something large trying hard to make itself smaller. Brightness against polished porcelain and the light fades. Eleanor struggles with the lighter in the darkness, finally managing to light the lone candle beside her bed. Once in it’s dim, but still comforting light, she was presented with an empty room. Nothing out of place, no ghouls lurking in the shadows.

The laugh that pours from her lips as her eyes sweep across the haunted window that dared call itself a mirror is more one of hysteria than true amusement. There is something out of places; Brahms. He is perched on the stool beside the wretched thing, tiny hands perfectly crossed in his lap. The flame flickers and reflects off the surface of his cheek; brightness against polished porcelain. This is the part where she leaves, isn’t it? There is something here, something hidden just beneath the surface, and if she knew what was good for her she’d pack this second. She’d call Malcolm early in the morning and hitch a ride into town. That’s what a person was supposed to do. A normal person.

She sets the simple iron wrought candle holder on the grand beside the bed, padding across the room and picking the dolls up into her arms, “You should be in bed,” but there’s no point in her tone, “I’d rather not be alone either,” it’s a small comfort, the closest to another person she’d found herself comfortable within years, “You can stay here, just this once,” for the first time it really feels like he can hear here and she hopes whatever favor she’s garnered by following the rules might be returned with some sense of safety, at least for the rest of the night.

She places him carefully at the edge of her pillow, pulling the blankets up to his chin, before blowing out the candle and crawling beneath blankets herself. Her eyes facing his face and the wall, as if combined with the doll’s power would abate whatever beast lurked just beneath the surface.

{}{}{}

By now they would have already begun their readings, breakfast finished and put away. But her alarm never goes off. She wakes slowly and gently for the first time in a long time. Eyes open drowsily to glance down at an odd and very lightweight on her shoulder. It all comes rushing back when she sees how deliberate his positioning is, head placed in the curve of her shoulder, hand tucked under the thick strap of her nightdress as if to imitate a grip. The voice springs into her mind again as she rises slowly, careful to sit him up alongside her or risk dropping him to the cold wooden floor.

 _I must not strain the moments of our meeting,_ she glances at his unchanging face as if he might have crawled into her mind and could hear the words that circled the drain in her mind. She almost expects his mouth to open and blurt out the next line in that same haunting voice as last night. That would be ridiculous, though not for the reasons she had once imagined she might have. Not because he was ceramic and cloth but because daylight was no place for otherworldly forces. She turns, placing her feet on the frigid floor and allowed the first look of her room in the morning sun. The closet door is open, hangers empty and crooked, her eyes flick to the dresser. Drawers open and left at odd angles, she’s sure if she dared to cross the room and peer in they would be empty as well.

“I supposed that means you would like brunch in pajamas,” turning to look at unblinking eyes, “Tomorrow we get back on schedule,” she’s thankful for the over-sized robe she had abandoned in the bathroom and had clearly been missed during the midnight raiding of her clothing.

Stepping back into the room while she tied the gauzy material closed, she made for the top of her dresser. Only pots and bottles of assorted creams and perfumes were left, no hair ties, no clips. There’s an odd specificity to it, she turns her gaze to the bed now empty, it jerks to the stool. He sits there, eyes trained on the bathroom door, waiting patiently for her. Whether it had been the storm or that unmoving, unnerving moments the night before, the portal had opened just as she’d thought. But had a monster stepped through or was it Brahms? Just a lost little boy left alone with the babysitter while his parents were away. Like every morning she moves to pick him up but the mirror catches her attention as always. This is different, she pulls the shortened strands that might have remained hidden if her hair had been sequestered in its regular ponytail. Just enough at the back and bottom not to be missed. It’s an instinct, not a though, pressing her hand against the mirror once again, fingers spread wide. The heat is there again, she knows it’s not her, it will be hours before she could ever hope to half that warm. The rest of it seems slicked with ice but here. There’s a clink, as if someone had gently and carefully placed a teacup upon its saucer.

“You know,” turning suddenly and continuing one as if the moment never happened, a blip in reality, “It has been a while since I’ve had a good hash. Do you like has, Brahms?” slipping on her slippers and stepping into the hallway, “What am I saying? Everyone loves hash.”

{}{}{}

She puts on the radio as they eat, it’s not opera but she tunes it to a classical station that had spent the morning playing dark violins that had an oddly romantic feel to them, leaving it on as she puts away their meal, “I don’t suppose I’ll be going outside today,” even if she had her clothes and, as she’d discovered on the way down, shoes the cleared sky wouldn’t last. The ground was far too flooded with water to make it through wearing anything other than her one size too big galoshes, “But today we’ve thrown the schedule out the window, haven’t we? I’m sure we’ll survive one day.”

Eleanor is almost thankful for it, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to follow the schedule and pretend like everything wasn’t different. She’d been playing the days over and over in her mind, plucking out every moment that had seemed a bit off, a word that seemed vastly too specific. _Chosen_ , kept crossing her mind. She couldn’t understand why or for what, not that she’d know if she figured out the answer. Sighing, she lifted her head from her crossed arms on the table, finding the kitchen empty.

“Brahms?” it seemed natural to look under the table as if he had fallen. He hadn’t, she would have heard it, and she _knew_ better, “Brahms?” hopping to her feet.

The loneliness began to creep in, wondering if chosen hadn’t been as positive as she thought, or if perhaps it was starting to wonder if it had made a wrong decision. She moves quickly through the first floor, trying to keep her breath below frantic as she’d never manage calm. She’s halfway up the stairs when there’s a knock.

“ _Eleanor_.”

She stops, “Fuck,” the curse a quiet hiss. She wants to turn and continue on her pursuit but Malcolm would just let himself in and that seemed like a violation of the rules, at least the rules that still seemed to matter today.

She took long, steadying breaths as she made her way back down the stairs, another loud knock threatens to shoot her out of her skin, “You’re early,” it’s two words and if she’s lucky he’ll hoard the conversation like always.

“Or you’ve just had a rather late start,” stepping around her and heading towards the kitchen, but she doesn’t miss the way his eyes drag over her, and a sudden feeling of disgust was added to the myriad of uncontrollable emotions swirling through her, “Storm keep you up?”

Eleanor hurried behind him, gnawing on her bottom lip while still searching for the missing boy, “No, the power went out and my alarm didn’t go off.”

Except her alarm is old fashion, running on batteries, with a hammer that bangs two bells. One you have to deliberately flip off and she hadn’t since the day she moved into the manor.

He drops the bags on the table and grins at her, “That must have been frightening.”

“No,” shaking her head, handing darting out for her envelope and the inventory, “It was oddly comforting.”

Trying not to think about the fingers that could only have belonged to a man – or a monster- and thus confused her almost perfect theory of this being a lost boy trapped in an avatar of what he hand once been. How they had moved along scars she had never let anyone see, let alone touch, as if he could will them away. And when she thought back on it, even though she couldn’t speak, or move, knowing the intent had never been to hurt her brought an odd comfort to the memory. More importantly, she needed to get him out so she could find the said idol and figure out what they would be doing next.

Malcolm screws up his face, looking at her as if she’s the odd one, “Don’t suppose you’d need me to stick around?” she shook her head as he handed over the clearly demanded items, “You’ll call though, if it gets bad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” forcing a smile to her face and nodding, “Of course, I will. You should go though, who knows when the eye will pass,” stepping around the table as he moved towards the door.

“You sure you’re alright? You look a little rattled,” his intentions are good, if she were a different person-

“Just running behind schedule, right?”

He laughs and points at her, “Good one,” making his way out of the room, she dares to move to the kitchen door frame when she hears his calling voice from the foyer, “You be safe!”

“You too!” speaking before her feet hurried across the floor, once the door closes she makes a mad dash up the stairs, “Brahms,” she whispers loudly, “This isn’t funny anymore,” turning the corner into the hallway where their rooms were.

His door is open, it hadn’t been last night, or this morning. Taking a stuttering breath that did nothing to call her nerves, she moved slowly down the hall and into his room. She’s expecting a mess, some tantrum, but nothing. Everything is still in its place. Except he’s sitting on the bed, facing the door, _waiting_. She swallows hard, stepping into the room on tiptoes. Only part of the red blanket that hung evenly all round the bed could be seen, it’s obscured by cream fabric that had never belonged to her. Air catches in her throat when her fingertips brush the fabric, is soft. It’s silk, she doesn’t think lifting the elegant thing with as delicate movements as she could manage in her eager curiosity.

It’s old and beautiful. She gasps, eyes tracing the lace that edged the [peignoir ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2F75%2Ff1%2F43%2F75f143a85d3b3eb2542c4e5d2e1ac357.jpg&t=YjdkYWRkNjhkYzY1MDhkZmUwMGRjNzdmNTU2ZjBmOWExNzI2NDRhYSxWYUxrWWNWeQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AcY0iORDE8MsxAzlwy85Kgg&p=https%3A%2F%2Fstargazingwithcassidy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F614623838690508800%2F12&m=1)and bodice, leaving little to the imagination. It has a coquettish appeal that she could never imagine on her, sickly girls aren’t pretty, they aren’t beautiful. _And you might as well stop trying,_ it’s a voice she doesn’t hear often anymore but it scares her more than whatever had begun to happen inside these sacrosanct walls. It steals all the strength from her, the garment flutters slowly to the bedspread, barely making contact before a loud slam came from nearby. Close, close enough to see, to spy, but still just too far. She doesn’t have a say. She carries it to her room, hanging it gently in the closet before returning to gather the doll in her arms. Eleanor was beginning to suspect the doll had little to do with what was happening here.

{}{}{}

They have a quiet snack once they reach the middle of Carmilla, managing to finish the book and dinner before darkness. But only barely. She’s climbed from the chair, holding the doll tight and made her way into the hall. It shouldn’t have surprised her to find no matter how many times she flipped the switch back and forth she was only rewarded with an angry snap. This felt deliberate, the storm was beginning to swirl again and by midnight it would have the claws to steal the light from the house but the window had just begun to shake the siding and the splattering rain had only started it’s dash. It’s deliberate this time, it’s forcing what it wants from her with over-complicated charades rather than just telling her what it wants. That would be to easy though, wouldn’t it?

It’s not difficult to put a new pair of pajamas on him by candlelight, tuck him in, read him a story, and it feels almost normal, she can forget something hangs in the air outside this child’s room. She does what she does every night, placing a kiss on his forehead and moving to the door. She’s about to turn into the empty corridor and close the door behind her when the first flash of the storm passes over the room. Brightness against polished porcelain and the light fades. Her heart feels like it’s trying to speed up and stop all at the same time, each piece that didn’t quite seem to fit finally clicking together in her mind. A series of feelings and instincts that could only be had in the darkness. Trembling, she moved towards her room, closing his door carefully and then her own.

The candle sits on that stool beside the mirror, allowing its reflection to cast an unearthly glow across the room. Eleanor could refuse, blow out the candle, climb into bed. She could wrap her arms around her legs, eyes wide, jumping at each foreign noise. Even the last bastion of sleep stolen from her. But those were the exact things she had hoped to escape, that she had escaped. Instead, she muses on each piece she has begun to put together as she unties the knot around her waist. It’s Brahms but it isn’t, her eyes flick to the mirror, there had never been a creature in its depths, just Brahms. Who must have survived that fire she’d read about in those papers she’d dug up in the library, who had been here all along, and had decided on her. For what, she didn’t quite know and Eleanor knew there was a danger in playing this game. She yanks the shapeless nightgown from her frame with no care for it or herself. It’s from before and nothing from before matters.

Which is why she gently pulls the soft fabric over her head and lets it fall to the floor. It’s a bit too long but it sits just right around the bust and waist once she moves it into place. She doesn’t dare look till she’s slid the equally long peignoir over her shoulders, watching the sleeves fall just passed her fingers. It meets its mate on the ground, bright against the walnut floor that looked ebony in the ever-darkening night. Or perhaps that was the storm. Hands tuck between her neck and the hair that had become trapped beneath the collar, liberating it from the silken prison. There’s no other place to look but at herself, she could cower, blow out the candle and wait, but it would leave her with even less footing. There was so little to start with. Taking a deep breath that she knew would never truly ground she turned her eyes to the mirror.

Eleanor felt almost beautiful, which was the closest to it she’d ever been to. If she reached out, she might be able to feel it dance along her fingertips. Scars and knobby knees hidden beneath a skirt that had a waist-high enough to force it into the right curve. The way the silk curves and melts into the lace across her breasts gives them a delicate curve that she could actually discern. The shadowed candle flame took care of the flatness of her hair, braiding it with oranges and yellows that made it seem more than simple brown. The thud is deafening in the room, biting her tongue as the suddenly fragile seaming glass rattled in its frame. Another storm was building inside the walls, much closer to reaching its zenith, it’s aftermath unforeseeable. She steps forward and the door swings open, the sudden draft snuffing out the candle in an instant.

It should be impossible to see, the storm’s dark clouds, the last candle extinguished. Something flickers beyond the bedroom door frame. Adrenaline and curiosity fuel her now, common sense had no place in the ethereal realm autumn’s first storm had carried them to. Stepping into the hall, it turned at the end of the hallway, deeper into the house. She’d never gone deeper, knowing that there would be more than enough time. Apprehension began to build, a natural feeling in animal instinct as well as human. There was common sense and there was deliberately putting herself in danger.

“Eleanor,” it’s that voice, it’s almost like being back there, “You have to follow the rules.”

She bit her lip, making her way to the end of the hall and finding the light bending around another corner, “You never told me the rules, Brahms,” hurrying her steps as if she might catch him but she doesn’t just the light moving through an open door, “It’s not exactly fair is it,” she chases after it, lost in a moment of pure ID.

The light flickers out, the door slams closed, and there’s nothing. No sound, no light, she has no idea where she is or what’s around her. There’s a temptation to explore with her hands, careful steps, and tentative fingers, a floorboard squeaks to her left. Head jerking to the sound as if somehow it had left a glow in its wake that would tell her where she was. Or if Brahms was in here with her. Another, closer now. There’s the sound of breathing, muffled, not hidden but simply stopped. Brightness against polished porcelain flashes in her mind. She’d never felt so far from beautiful that a mask felt necessary.

“Brahms?”

Even closer, if she lifted her hand she might be able to brush her fingers against him.

“ _Eleanor,_ ” it’s different now, deeper, darker. The voice of a man that he can’t quell in this gossamer reality he’s built inside these walls, “ _Pretty, pretty Eleanor.”_


	2. i'll watch you sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cause inside you’re ugly, you’re ugly like me. i can see through you see to the real you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well here you go. i hope you all like it.  
> SMUT

Eleanor has never been in a situation like this before. The few encounters she'd had were not worth remembering and most of the time she wished they had never happened at all. But none of them would have prepared her for this, nothing could prepare anyone for this. He had to be able to hear her heart, faster than she's ever felt it, rumbling in her ears. Rain picks up, thunder rumbles, it all masks the sounds around. Sight, sound, what she's left with she doesn't quite know what to do with. Breath, she has to remember to breathe, but not too fast, but not too slow. There's a pressure through the fog, could he see her through the dark? How? But it seems more than possible, she's sure it's true.

* * *

“Are you scared of me, Eleanor?” it's right beside her ear, everything in her wants to drop but she's incapable of moving. At least for now, “Don't be scared.”

“Of course not,” each word one breath away from a stutter, “Never,” she can feel her muscles begin to ease as the heat of him begins to roll off him, “I just think if you want to act like a grown-up,” he's pressed against her, a ragged breath, his, hers, both, “You should talk like a grown-up,” trying a charade of firmness that she hopes he believes because she doesn't.

He's stock-still, this time her breath does stop. The words were wrong, she tries not to think about what happens next. Where the beautiful nightgown she was wearing came from. There's a soft pressure against her stomach, quickly it's a grip. One huge hand grips her tight around the middle, pulling her back against him, back of her head pressed to the dip between his ribs as they lead downwards. A doll to him. Everything feels switched around, she can't breathe right. A beautifully excruciating heat is dripping from her head to a place just below her stomach. It was heady and Eleanor was having a hard time focusing on anything but the sudden onslaught of sensations.

“I don't like when he talks to you,” it's in such contrast to all the tones she'd heard before, a deep rumbling tone that is closer to an animal, “I don't like when he looks at you,” she shudders as the rumble in his chest with each word seems to shake her entire body, “You're for me,” another large handle sits across her chest, the curve between thumb and forefinger pressed firmly to the base of her neck.

It's rough, creating a friction across her skin. The sensations of healed but ever deformed skin. Fire dances in front of her eyes, maybe it's lightning, nothing quite makes sense in the fog. Only that he's strong and for some reason thinks she's beautiful, he wants her desperately it seems.

“Mummy and daddy said so.”

There's no thought of what those words mean, the implication. Just that rumble, his grip tightening. The smell of dust and old things surround her, reminding her of the few high points of childhood. When she could escape into vintage stores, hiding among the stacked furniture and broken down pinball machines. But there's something distinctly masculine about it. She pictures him there, tucked away like so many other broken things. It's a feeling she knows very well.

“You chose me?” but she's not sure if she managed to actually say it or if it was lost in the breath he'd stolen from her when his thumb began to stroke that lacey valley between her breasts, “For what?”

“To take care of me, of course,” something hard lays across the top of her face, that mask, that boy he isn't any longer, “To love me,” the hand around her neck rises till he's holding the whole column in his hand. Just the barest of squeeze and he could all the way around, “Do you love me, Eleanor?”

There's mischief there, she has to follow the rules, “I don't know you well enough yet, Brahms,” and he does squeeze, just the barest bit, “I want to,” it's nothing but the truth, gasped out in case she soon forgets how to speak, “What do you want, Brahms?”

It's not hard to tell what he wants, the cool porcelain running over hair, pulling her as close to him as possible, surely if he could have absorbed her into him he would have, “I like touching you,” there it is again, feeling the fingers around her neck flex and disappear, “Can I?” more beast than man.

For a moment she wonders what he means when he already has such a firm hold on her but there are a thousand more ways to touch her. She tried once and it was barely a sound, “Yes,” the second a whisper but he heard it.  
He's gone entirely, in an instant. It's so much colder than she remembers it being. Conflicting with the heat that had begun to spread sent goosebumps across her skin. Fingertips trace the edges of the peignoir around the shoulders before pushing it off, she reaches forward, finding the open edges of a cashmere cardigan against them before pushing it off. The feel of cotton and harsh polyester drag across nails. A hiss, echoing in his little porcelain prison, they'd have time for that later. She finds that rough fabric again, following it up and over. She had planned to find the collar of his undershirt and was greeted instead with a thicket of soft hair. Everything about him is so masculine, it comes with a feeling of protection. Of feeling beautiful. Another hiss, this one joined by a hand gripping the back of her neck, spreading across the back of her shoulders, her other hand traces along the rough planes of his now exposed arm, over a strong shoulder, by the time she reaches his neck the skin is smooth. A path of softness before she's met with what would be more described as a bramble of facial hair. Finally to the smooth edge of the mask, warmed by him. He grabs her wrist, tight, tight enough to bruise.

“I can't see you,” trying not to waver, trying to forget that he can see her but she can't see him, “I like touching you, Brahms,” it seemed easier for them both to parrot the words back.

The house seems to shake in the wind, the house must be freezing but the only thing stopping her from believing the room was ablaze was the darkness. All she wants to kiss someone who wants to kiss her back, he could put the mask on forever after that. It was such a small thing, paltry when weighed against the others in the room. He pushes her hand to her side, letting go only once it was pin straight against her side, the grip on her neck twitches. Then that silence she was so quickly growing the hate. Where nothing moved and nothing breathed, the moment where it almost seemed like she might wake up from some dream into a world where dolls are just that and men don't live in walls. His hand is on hers again, raising it slowly and placing it where it once was. She waits till he's finished caressing her arm with his hand, slowly towards her shoulder, finger that window of lace above her sternum once more. He can feel her stuttered breathing, fingers stretching towards his cheek, he flinches when she finally touches his cheek. Smooth as his neck had been, over the bridge of his nose, down. He gasps when they flutter across his lips, all her bravery gone when faced with the fact she would have to ask him. There's no way she'll reach on her own.

“I bet you're quite handsome,” Eleanor says instead, brushing a shaggy bit of fringe off of his face, “You don't have to ever show me, I can imagine,” it's farthest she can reach, even then she's stretching and straining.

“Good-” he stops, inhaling and exhaling slowly, “May I please have another good night kiss?”

She nods, trying to find her footing in this whole situation no matter how many times it's proved to be fruitless, “If you'd like,” this would be the same.

Eleanor can remember the 4 times she's ever been kissed, none of them were like this. It started soft, slow, his lips are bitten, the roughness of scabbing from the deeper ones, but soft all the same. Fingers flexing against the growing heat of his chest, not quite sure what to do with the other hand. Tracing her spine with his palm, he wrapped an arm around her entirely and lifted her into his arms. Bringing the evening to the first of many crescendos, arms wrapping around his neck out of an instinctive need to brace herself against something. It wouldn't bring her feet back to the ground. She presses forward and he pulls back, just enough to allow him to catch his breath in the moment. Panting breaths that roll hot across her skin, it sends that powerful thing taking refuge in her body through every nerve ending she had. Pressing her lips to his wasn't a choice, even if she had tried to stop herself it would never have happened, she needed him. She needed Brahms to need her. It was unequivocally selfish of her, there was no other way for it to be described. But hadn't he been the same? His parent's parading around one woman after another until he had chosen her- selfishly.

None of this seemed truly greedy though, even if every part of it was. Her mouth, his hands, she's having trouble figuring out where he ends and she starts. Everything is soft and warm, held so tightly in his arms. For the first time truly knowing what it was like to be safe. And with that feeling came a beast of her own that till now she had never known of, never heard a whisper or felt a twinge, perhaps because when it was finally felt, it was all-consuming. Her logical mind, what little breath of it was left, told her to pull away and think about this all. The choices being made, the ones already past, could only lead somewhere dangerous. Obsessive. It reminds her of the gown she currently wears and where it must have come from.

“Come back,” it's quiet, “Come back. Come back,” over and over, coming from that beast inside him.

Her entire body shudders, head rolling back. Something is intoxicating about being a possession. Maybe it was the dark or the snuffing out of logical and all its relatives, but she could lose herself in these sensations forever. All that's left in the gloom is a monstrous love that is somehow newfound and profoundly ancient. His mouth finds it's home in the crook of her neck, biting at the skin there as if she might disappear into a cloud of ash. It grounds her back in the moment, his teeth, the tickle of his beard, his grip on her almost bone-crushing. It doesn't matter, it's not as if she can breathe easily, to begin with.

“I'm here,” pressing her nose into the crown of his head, “I'm yours,” it tumbles out, two words gasped in the only place either had been given a chance by the other, “You chose me remember?” he disappears from her once again.

And then she just feels like she's flying, skirt billowing around her legs for a moment before bouncing on a feather bed softer than any she'd ever felt before. It just feels like a cloud in the moment adding to the stuporous ambiance of it all. His hands grip her ankles, yanking her into place before tracing up the skin. Bunching the heated fabric along his arms as he lifted it higher and higher, climbing over her. Tossing it into the abyss once he'd pulled it over her head. It seems as if his hands are everywhere at once. Pinching her nipples, caressing her thighs, she's drowning in sensations. None of them have names, she's trying to chase them but she doesn't know what they are. All she knows is she doesn't want him to stop and she wants more. Whatever more is.

“I like your skin,” a quiet voice in a thunderous room, “I like how it tastes,” her gasping drowns out the rest when his tongue dips along the scrawny curve of her ribs, “Feels good,” in a moment she discovered what more had meant.

Eleanor had never thought anyone man would touch her there, let alone taste her. His tongue swiped along the cleft between her lips, her body threatened to shoot straight up, a long, strong arm pressed over the expanse of her naked torso would stop any further threat of that. He clenches a thigh tightly in his hand, spreading as far is it would go before seeming to devour her. The beast inside her is free, running rampant, it's setting fire to every nerve. It's stealing her breath, her skin doesn't seem to fit, every part of her tenses at the ministrations until she's sure her muscles are preparing to snap. All of it seeming to culminate in one final blow that seemed intent on destroying her.

It's being electrocuted, lit on fire, and drowning in the most beautiful ways all at the same moment. It's her heart exploding, ribs shattering, and all she can do is scream. Trying to release whatever is inside her and finding it simple seems to lead to another shriek, and another. She doesn't want him to stop, there's still that word more, she needs something. His lips and bearded chin are sticky as they drag back up her skin, somehow he's gotten her wrists in a strong hand, pressed tightly in the bed. Not enough to hurt but she won't be going anywhere unless he lets her. Hypothetically she knows what comes next but everything's blurring together. Trying to catch her breath, knees bunching his shirt around his ribs, trying in some vain to touch him.

He's saying her name over and over, hovering above her and the hand caressing her disappears. Each time is harder than the last and this time she whimpers. A small sounds that makes her feel needy, desperate.

“Don't cry, Eleanor,” he cooed, a glee in his voice she can't quite name, “I'll make it better,” she doesn't have a chance to ask what he means.

He steals the breath from her with another possessive kiss, teeth clanking, her taste lingering the cracks of his lips. It's sudden, she's unprepared for the sensation. Her eyes start to roll, a moan coming from the same deep place that monster had once been caged, a sensation of fullness that she could never imagine. The noises he makes are inhuman, teeth pulling at her upper lip, pressing into the apple of her cheeks. Every move seems deliberate, how many times had he imagined this moment between them? It's intoxicating feeling beautiful, the center of his little world. That sensation fills her up again but this time she knows what's coming. Riding the wave of sensations, the speed of his clothed hips increasing every second it seemed until he drove her off that cliff. She thrashed in his grip, keening and howling. None of this feels like her, none of it seems real. Her mind barely has a second to adjust until he's flipped her over, pressing her hard into the mattress and yanking her hips high into the air. The cushion vibrates with the scream that comes out of her mouth when he enters her with what seems to be his entire weight.

She can feel him everywhere, almost too much, as if there isn't quite enough room for what he's forced into her. There's no mercy for her anymore, he's lost in his own reverie of sensations, she rides the wave of his pleasure. Body limp, every part of her overwhelmed, as if the sensations would go on forever. His hips stutter against her, he seems to fall completely on her, almost smothered beneath him. She didn't know he could force himself deeper into her but he's a found away. He seems to quiver inside her, shocking her body with another sensation of falling, and stilling.

Brahms rises slowly, she takes in a deep breath, pulling himself from inside her warmth, the whine of wanting seeming a reaction in the moment. She can't move, can't think, can barely breathe. It doesn't seem real and far too real. The blankets shift, he grabs her, laying her against the bare sheet and pulling them over her. She yawns, curling into the mass of blankets and cushions with her aching body. It saddens her knowing that she won't know the next time she'll see him. The next time they would share a moment like this. There's shuffling in the dark, her eyes are heavy, she's falling into slumberland. She can't imagine any place better than now. The bed dips, the blankets shift, she feels the flat hardness of the mask between two boney shoulder blades. But he'll stay. He'll stay with her.

Perhaps the only monster lurking beneath the silver waters in the mirrors of Heelshire Mansion, had been the beast inside herself.


End file.
